


I fear the raven's call

by deacertes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, descriptions of illness and recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deacertes/pseuds/deacertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a fill for a prompt asking for Aramis to have a flashback to Savoy when they find the dead Musketeers in the snowy forest in episode one. (Featuring a beautiful title graphic by Sorelh.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stunning title graphic by the incredibly talented Sorelh. (http://sorelh.tumblr.com/post/95169474991/i-fear-the-ravens-call-by-deacertes-ongoing)

It was the flap of wings that alerted him; Aramis tracked the bird as it flew overhead, his chest tightening at the excited raucous nearby. After Savoy that same dreadful call had haunted his dreams. He still woke with a start on some nights, convinced that he had heard the beating of wings and felt the brush of feathers against his face. Aramis had to wet his lips before he could speak. "Over there." The others followed his directions, leaving their horses and clambering up the slippery, frozen slope.

For one suspended moment, Aramis felt as though time had flung him backwards. Before him the snowy ground was strewn with twisted corpses, bloodless skin and bloated faces, beards and hair encrusted with ice. Aramis blinked and shook himself free of his reverie, moving forward to frighten the birds from his fallen brothers. He took off his hat and knelt, heedless of the wintry ground and the cold seeping into his skin. "Cornay," he murmured, his voice laden with sorrow as he recognized the distorted features of his fellow musketeer.

The birds refused to abandon their awful feast. Hunger made them bold, and they would not be discouraged. Aramis remembered how they had come for the dead of Savoy, pecking at eyes and wounds, dragging off strips of skin; beaks smeared with red as they stabbed at entrails and what snippets of flesh they could plunder. The sight sickened him now as it had then, but he reserved his hatred not for God's creatures - but for the men who had left his companions to rot amid the spindly trees.

He felt the reassuring weight of Porthos' hand upon his shoulder. Aramis glanced up at his friend, but judging by the tightening of Porthos' expression his attempt to allay his friend's concern had failed.

Aramis looked away. Closing his eyes, he drew in a shaky breath, letting it out slowly as he tried to push back the memories. He re-opened them and stood, deliberately stepping away from Porthos, whose mouth twisted unhappily. Aramis almost gave in then, but knew he couldn't accept the comfort on offer, not if he wanted to stay in control long enough to see this through.

He found himself grateful that the urgency of their mission meant there was precious little time to stop and think; but the resulting guilt ate away at him. Having found Dujon, they were then tasked with overcoming the man's fear of the Cardinal. Fortunately, he and Porthos were well-versed with their roles and the performance was seamless, despite the presence of their uneasy audience.

At least the young Gascon hadn't seemed inclined to interfere with the interrogation.

d'Artagnan continued to eye them warily as Porthos finished tying up Dujon, and Aramis attempted to replace the unused musket ball back in its pouch. When his fingers convulsed the ball flew from his hand, bouncing and rolling towards d'Artagnan, who stooped to pick it up before silently passing it back. Aramis tried not to sound brusque as he thanked the young man. Any hope that Porthos hadn't seen was dashed when he saw his friend watching him worriedly. Aramis turned away. Nothing had changed, to succumb to that concern now would break him, and his composure was already slipping. He feared what that might mean for Athos.

Despite his assertion that he could take out two of Gaudet's men, Aramis was relieved that he would not be called upon make the shots. His confidence had waned with the tremors that afflicted him. It was fortunate that the lovely Madame Bonacieux displayed a flare for improvisation as she waved the guard's arm to convince his friend that all was well. Far less welcome was d'Artagnan's reckless charge, but all was forgotten in the exhilaration of the oncoming fight.

Aramis felt a heightened sense of anticipation as first one, and then a second man rushed forward to challenge him. He swung his heavy cloak to confound their attacks, before pulling one man close to use as an impromptu shield. A third then joined the fight. The challenge was over quickly, his three would-be assailants lying dead at his feet. Euphoria engulfed him, and Aramis twirled his sword in a final flourish. Thanking his Creator, he instinctively turned to look for Porthos. A relieved smile spread across his face as he found his friend unharmed and triumphant.

The young Gascon was still engaged in fighting Gaudet, but his swordsmanship left Aramis in little doubt as to who would emerge the victor. Sure enough, d'Artagnan soon had Gaudet at his mercy. While Aramis sympathized with his desire for vengeance, it fell upon him to point out that Gaudet was more useful to them alive. Besides, he found that he shared d'Artagnan's sentiment that Gaudet deserved to die at the end of the rope.

In the end, his words and d'Artagnan's restraint proved wasted, as Gaudet demonstrated once again the vile nature of his character when he tried to stab the young man in the back. At the cry of warning, d'Artagnan whirled around, and Gaudet met his maker. The ruthless part of Aramis delighted in the look of startled agony permanently etched into the dead man's face.

Now that the fighting was done, a terrible coldness threatened to overwhelm Aramis, and he struggled to keep pace with Porthos and d'Artagnan as they hurried to the prison. His heart stuttered in his chest as he heard Athos' desperate order to shoot. He masked his disquiet with a relieved smile as he hurried down the steps, the pardon clenched tightly in his hand. Aramis knew Athos wasn't one for outward displays, but in his mind another scenario was playing itself out, one where he and Porthos had arrived too late. Placing his hand upon his friend grounded him, separating the truth from the cruel tricks of his mind.

d'Artagnan's youthful bluster had all but deserted him now he knew that Athos had played no part in his father's death. Athos was the first to reassure the young man that he bore him no ill will for his earlier accusations, and expressed his gratitude for d'Artagnan's assistance in proving his innocence. They invited the young man to join them for breakfast, but though he thanked them, d'Artagnan made his excuses, saying he ought to return to his lodgings and make certain that Madame Bonieux had suffered no ill effects from her evening's excitement. Porthos chuckled and slapped the young man on the back hard enough to make him stagger forward, telling d'Artagnan to be sure to thank the lady properly. Aramis tried to summon a response to his friend's knowing smirk, but couldn't manage more than a weak quirk of his lips.

The garrison was quiet when they arrived, the murders cast a somber air over the place. Cook expressed his pleasure at seeing Athos safely back among them, before leaving them to their food. Aramis couldn't bear to taste a morsel of it; he was reaching for his drink when a tremor shook his hand, overturning the cup. Aramis stared as the red liquid ran across the table. He flinched from its path, his sleeve catching his plate, spilling the contents onto the ground.

Aramis froze; Porthos and Athos appeared to hold their breath beside him.

A bold jackdaw, spying a piece of bread from Aramis' plate, flew down into the courtyard. Aramis lurched to his feet so quickly it took flight again almost immediately. He stumbled from his seat and managed to stagger three steps before he sank to his knees retching, painful empty heaves. Porthos and Athos were at his side instantly, shielding him from any onlookers and murmuring reassurances. A large hand settled on his back. Athos' voice spoke close to his ear. "We're going to help you up and get you to your room. All right? Come on now: one, two, three, up." They each hooked an arm under his, and half walked, half carried him to his room.

Once there, they sat him on his bed and removed his weapons, coat and boots, Athos wet a cloth and wiped his face. Porthos brought him a drink, holding the cup for him when his hands trembled too badly to lift it to his lips. Aramis could sense their desperate concern, but he was powerless to reassure them. He was coming undone and he knew it, and he was terrified. "Don't let me fall asleep," he begged, "I can't sleep. Don't let me. God, please. Don't let me."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're exhausted," Porthos began.

"No. You have to promise me. Promise to help me stay awake."

Neither of his friends were prepared to make that promise, but they also knew to deny him would only plunge Aramis into a deeper state of despair. Athos tried to sidestep the issue. "We'll stay here with you."

"I won't sleep."

"So, we'll just sit together," said Porthos; he began to remove his things.

Athos kept a careful eye on Aramis as he tugged off his boots, speaking to Porthos in a low whisper. "What brought this on?"

Porthos moved closer so that Aramis might not overhear. "We found Corday and the others in the woods."

"This could be very bad," Athos murmured, regarding Aramis with mounting concern. "Help me with the bed."

They had done this many times before. Athos got Aramis to his feet, while Porthos pushed the narrow cot up against the wall. The three then arranged themselves, sitting with their backs to the wall, Aramis in the middle, Athos and Porthos on either side. Athos would not have called himself a tactile person, but on these occasions he made certain that he was in contact with his friend for the length of their bodies from foot to shoulder. Porthos likewise; one of his calloused hands resting on Aramis' leg.

"I can't close my eyes; I hear them when I do," said Aramis, staring at something only he could see.

"We'll keep them away," said Athos.

Aramis didn't seem to register his words. "They'll peck out my eyes," he continued, fearfully. "What good am I without my eyes? I can't shoot if I can't see. Did Marsac come back? I have to find him. I have to tell him. Not his fault, not his fault. My head hurts." Aramis brought his hand up to feel for a wound that was no longer there.

Athos caught his hand and lowered it.

"He isn't coming back, is he," said Aramis, his gaze still distant. "I'm cold. Why can't I get warm?"

Porthos made an unhappy sound and put an arm around Aramis' shoulders, drawing him closer still. Aramis was calm for a moment and then he jerked back.

"Blood. I can smell blood. Are you hurt?"

Porthos shook his head sadly. "No, I'm not hurt."

Aramis twisted in his grasp to look at Athos.

"I'm unhurt," said Athos. "We're both fine."

"But I can smell blood," Aramis insisted, staring wildly around the room.

Athos gripped Aramis by the shoulders, firmly but gently, trying to get his friend to focus on him. "There's no blood. No one is hurt. You're safe. We are all safe. We're at the garrison, this is your room. Remember?"

Aramis stared, blinking dazedly. "Athos?" He touched Athos' chest. "They were going to shoot you. You asked them to shoot you."

Athos tried to explain. "I just wanted it over with, but I can promise you both, I have no wish to die. Perhaps," he admitted, "there was a time when I did not care whether or not I lived. But since then I have come to realise that I can best redress the wrongs I have committed by doing my duty." One corner of his mouth quirked upwards slightly as he regarded his friends. "Besides, who would keep you two out of trouble if I were not here?"

Porthos nodded slowly. "I reckon we'll hold you to that. Right, Aramis?"

Aramis however, took Athos' hand and placed it over his heart. "Promise me, that you will never again ask for death. Promise me. I would have your word. I cannot hear you ask again." His voice broke. "I cannot."

"You have my word, my friend. I will never utter those words again," vowed Athos.

Aramis searched his face before finally relinquishing his hand and collapsing against Porthos. He shuddered. "I'm cold." He buried into Porthos' embrace like a child seeking warmth, twisting his fingers in the material stretched across Porthos' broad chest.

Porthos sat back again, tugging Aramis with him and arranging the other man so he was more or less sprawled over his legs, with his head pillowed on Porthos' belly. Athos watched them with faint amusement. Porthos had once likened Aramis to a cat, one prone to claw and hiss, but who would come those he trusted to be fussed and petted. Rarely had that analogy seemed more apt.

Suddenly weary, Athos took what space was left on the bed for himself. Even so, he wasn't confident that he could close his eyes right now without seeing the black holes of musket barrels

"I hate this," complained Aramis, wracked with tremors despite Porthos' attempts to soothe him. "It isn't cold. I know this. So why am I shivering? It makes no sense. I'm sorry, my friends, to be a burden to you."

"Don't say that," growled Porthos. "Do you really think that little of us? So what if now and then your memories catch up with you. Am I a burden to you when you have to take care of me? Or Athos, when he tries to drink the city dry?" He offered his friend an apologetic glance; Athos shrugged lightly in acknowledgement.

"He's right," Athos added. "And does it really matter if you believe that you are cold now? Tomorrow you may feel warm again."

"You don't have to coddle me."

"We're not," denied Porthos. "Come on, how many times have you done this for one of us?"

"More times than I wish to recount," supplied Athos. "Aramis, you care for us tirelessly whenever the situation calls for it; all we ask is that you allow us to return the favour."

Aramis regarded them both thoughtfully, then he gave a put upon sigh. "Fine. I'm too cold to move anyway." He pressed further into Porthos' embrace. "But I'm not sleeping. Don't let me. You promised."

Athos and Porthos shared a look, both aware that neither of them had made that promise.

Aramis drew Porthos' arm more firmly around him. "If I sleep, I'll hear them," he insisted.

"No, you won't," said Porthos, attempting to smoothe his friend's tangled hair with his other hand. "Athos can recite something. That usually keeps them away, doesn't it?"

"Very well," agreed Aramis, his voice already heavy with sleep. "But you must wake me if you need to stop."

"We'll wake you," said Porthos.

As Aramis' eyelids reluctantly drifted shut, Athos began to recite what he still remembered of the prose and poetry he had been obliged to memorize as a child.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos' first thought upon waking was that he would willingly embrace sobriety before frequenting that particular tavern again; his throat felt as though he had been gargling with sand. He groaned and rolled over - or rather he would have, had he not discovered that he was effectively pinned between the wall and the person behind him. Athos flailed briefly before he finally succeeded in getting one hand beneath him to push himself up. He stared blearily at his sleeping companions.

Porthos was, unsurprisingly, taking up most of the available space in the bed. He was lying on his back with one arm above his head and the other cradling Aramis, who was sprawled on top of him. Aramis' brow was furrowed and his eyes moved fitfully behind closed lids. Athos would have let them both sleep on, had it not been for a pressing need, which made getting up a matter of some urgency. He nudged Porthos until the man's eyes finally opened a sliver.

"Let me up," Athos hissed.

Porthos pulled a face, but shuffled over enough to allow Athos to slip out of the bed.

*****

Athos decided that since he was up, it would be prudent to check in with their Captain. He found the older man weighed down with the unhappy task of organizing funerals for the murdered musketeers. Although the look in his eye suggested Treville was at least taking some comfort from the knowledge that the Cardinal had suffered a heavy blow from his men's involvement.

"How is he?"

Athos wasn't surprised by the question. Treville made a point of being well informed where his men were concerned. "He's been better," he admitted, his voice still hoarse.

Treville's expression was understanding. "I can excuse you from your duties for another day, possibly two?"

It was a generous offer, and one which spoke of Treville's genuine regard for his men. Athos considered it, then shook his head. "Thank you, sir, but I'm inclined to believe Aramis would not take it well. And it might be beneficial for him to have something to focus his attention."

"You're probably right," Treville agreed. He searched through the papers on his desk and held out the one he found to Athos. "The three of you can handle this."

Athos read it through, his eyebrows betraying his surprise. "Someone is trying to poison his majesty's horses?"

"Probably not, but I did promise to look into the matter. It is as likely to be bad feed as anything else. Several of the horses have been, out of sorts, shall we say. The King is most upset. He was riding one of them when it had an unfortunate episode." The two men exchanged a wry look. "However," Treville continued, "it should be noted that these incidents appear to occur with very little warning. The King likes to hunt and won't be put off riding for long. If his mount was to be affected more severely and collapsed-"

"-It could prove dangerous for the King," Athos concluded.

Treville nodded. "Look into it. If it is bad feed, I want all those involved. If it's something else, find out what. I will try to dissuade the King from riding in the meantime, but the sooner you can solve this the better."

******

The open window did little to dispel the odor that greeted Athos upon his return. Aramis was on the floor hunched over a bucket, with a sympathetic looking Porthos rubbing his back. Athos decided it would be wise to wait before sharing their new orders. Pouring out a drink, he ignored the stench emanating from the bucket to offer the cup to Aramis, who accepted it with a grateful nod.

Athos felt the first stirrings of unease. While it wasn't all that uncommon for Aramis to have a succession of bad nights following something like this, Athos had never known it to carry over into the day. Though tired and irritable, Aramis would normally be fully capable of fulfilling his duties. This time Athos found himself wondering if he had made the right decision turning down Treville's offer. However, the one thing he was certain of was that Aramis wouldn't have taken kindly to being singled out. Besides, if this was merely a case of bad feed, how much real danger could there be for them.

Once they were fairly confident that Aramis was going to keep down the drink, Porthos took the bucket outside. Athos helped his friend up from the floor.

"We have our orders?" Aramis asked; the roughness of his voice a far cry from its usual pleasing tones.

Athos nodded, but waited for Porthos to step back into the room before telling them what he knew.

"Let me get this straight," said Porthos, incredulously. "The King's horse gets the shits, and we have to investigate?"

"I believe that is the crux of it, yes."

Porthos shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"As long as we're not expected to clean up," said Aramis, with a hint of his usual humour.

"I believe I can safely say that will lie outside of our jurisdiction," said Athos.

"Are we taking the boy with us?" Seeing their puzzlement, Porthos grinned. "I think you'll find our young Gascon friend is loitering by the gate."

Athos rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, he wants to be a musketeer?"

Porthos shrugged. "Don't know. I didn't stop to speak to him. But it wouldn't be a bad idea would it? He's pretty handy with a sword."

"He's hot headed and impetuous."

"He's young," defended Porthos. "And his father had just been murdered. I think he was entitled to be a bit upset, don't you?"

Athos conceded the point with a nod of apology.

"He doesn't seem in any rush to go back home. Chances are the only thing waiting for him there are fields and sheep. Can you honestly see the lad who was prepared to take on us settling for that?"

"He might live longer," said Athos, and could have bitten his own tongue when Aramis stiffened beside him. Porthos' glower told him he had caught it too. "All right, we'll talk to him. If nothing else, if he really wants to be a musketeer this will definitely test his resolve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts as to whose point of view I should use for the next chapter?


	4. Chapter 4

If waking up on Porthos was mortifying, the knowledge that he was about to vomit on him was far worse. Aramis elbowed Porthos in the throat and kneed him in the belly in his haste to scramble off the bed. Porthos took it in his stride; locating a bucket he set it down in front of Aramis before moving his hair back from his face and settling on the floor beside him. Aramis was feeling so wretched by this time he no longer cared about his embarrassment. He soaked up the reassuring presence at his side with a deep abiding gratitude. He felt disconcerted again briefly when Athos returned, horribly conscious of the smell pervading the room. However, as Porthos continued to rub slow comforting circles on his back and Athos crouched down to hand him a drink, Aramis was reminded that they had all seen the best and the worst of one another, and these men would never judge him.

He felt as shaky as a newborn when Athos helped him to his feet, and had to clench his jaw as his stomach once again threatened to rebel. There was nothing for him to bring up save for bile, and he was loathe to revisit that particular experience. He sat on the bed and tried to concentrate on the conversation. He shared Porthos' disbelief regarding their orders, and feared that their Captain was indulging them on his behalf. Part of him wanted to walk over there and insist that he was fit for duty; the more realistic part doubted he would make it up the stairs to Treville's office without assistance. Aramis wasn't sure how he felt about bringing in d'Artagnan. On the one hand, he liked what he knew of the young man; on the other, he felt ill-equipped to deal with the scrutiny of strangers.

However, he said nothing on the matter as he put on his boots and coat, willing his fingers to obey him as he buckled his sword belt around his waist. Porthos handed him his hat. 

"You all right?"

Aramis tried to summon a smile to allay the concern in his friend's voice; when that failed he ducked his head and walked quickly, throwing out an "I'm fine" on his way to the courtyard. The air outside revived him and he was able to make his way to the stables without embarrassing himself. His horse seemed to sense that all was not well; it nudged Aramis anxiously as he rubbed the stallion's velvety nose. "Ah, my friend. You must be kind to me today. No mischief, hmm?" He scolded the horse playfully, pressing his face to its. "I do not think I will be able to stay on your back if you do not watch out for me," he confessed. The horse snickered softly and shuffled its hooves, as though it understood. Aramis patted its powerful neck. "You're a good friend."

"Talking to your horse again?"

Aramis whirled around, an action he immediately regretted as the world span with him. He blinked rapidly and found a worried looking Porthos supporting him by his arm. "I keep telling you," said Aramis, his voice strained and uneven, "your horse would view you considerably more fondly if you conversed with it a little." Porthos, the Saints bless him, played along with his efforts to make out that nothing was wrong.

"We get on fine. I make sure he's fed and watered. And he takes me where I want to go."

"Pfft," said Aramis, trying not to lean to heavily upon his friend. "You bribe him with treats to stay in his good favour."

"Yeah, well, we don't all have your silver tongue, do we." 

"Or my good looks," Aramis teased back, confident to playfully bat his lashes now the dots were fading from his vision.

"Nor apparently, your lack of modesty," a familiar voice said, dryly. "Though, if your looks attract horses, I would advise being discreet about it."

Aramis feigned indignation, while offering Athos silent thanks as the words evoked a huff of laughter from Porthos, dispelling the tense atmosphere.

They readied their mounts and walked them to the gate. d'Artagnan greeted them with good cheer; but it was clear he had been uncertain if his overtures of friendship would be welcome. He seemed scarcely able to believe his luck when they invited him to accompany them on a mission for the King. He followed close on Athos' heels, firing questions at the older man, who responded with unusual tolerance. 

"He's like a bleeding puppy," Porthos whispered, amused; drawing the first genuine smile of the day from Aramis.

"As long as Athos is willing to train him."

Porthos snorted trying withhold his laughter.

Athos glanced back over his shoulder, throwing the pair a suspicious glower even though it was unlikely he had caught anything of their conversation. The innocent looks he received in return were greeted with exasperation. d'Artagnan gave them all a confused look and then carried on talking as they collected his horse en route to the King's stables.

By the end of the day, despite carrying out a through search and questioning everyone, they were none the wiser as to the cause behind the horses decline.

"Someone must be slipping them something, doesn't have to be in their food. Could just as easily be in their water."

"It doesn't have to be in either," Aramis pointed out, "a treat or titbit slipped to them would transport it just as easily."

"Which would still make someone here the guilty party," said Athos.

"But how do we prove it?" d'Artagnan asked. 

"There's little point watching them. They're unlikely to act while the King refrains from riding."

One corner of Athos' mouth curved up very slightly. "Then we'll just have to persuade his Majesty that he should."

Porthos and Aramis shared his conspiratorial smile, but d'Artagnan remained nonplussed. "Isn't that a little unwise?"

Porthos gave him a look. "We don't let the King get on his horse, we just have to make it seem like he's going to."

d'Artagnan looked embarrassed that he hadn't considered that. Aramis took pity on him. He put a companionable arm around the young man's shoulders. "We will need every available pair of sharp eyes to keep watch. What say you, friend. Are you up to the challenge?"

"It will most probably be dull, time consuming, and tedious," supplied Athos.

"Boring and hot," declared Porthos, unhappily. "A lot of standing around doing nothing. I hate that," he added, directing his complaint at Aramis, who gave a sympathetic shrug.

"I don't mind," said d'Artagnan, eagerly. "I'll help in any way I can."

*****

They had no difficulty in persuading the King to go along with their ruse. In fact, their only real problem was getting him to tone down his performance. Louis paraded around the palace, loudly proclaiming his brave decision to go riding and to the devil with the consequences. 

Porthos kept a watchful eye on Aramis; he hadn't forgotten his friend's fainting spell, and the waxy pallor was worrisome. The real trick lay in not getting caught. Aramis didn't tolerate being fussed over, and was unlikely to confide in any of them if he felt ill. It was down to them to spot the signs and handle it accordingly. Unfortunately, that invariably meant allowing Aramis to run himself near to collapse, since that meant he would be less resistant to their efforts to care for him.

With the first part of the plan now underway, they had time to finalize the rest. However, it soon became clear that someone was going to have to stay very close to the King 's horse if they were to have a chance of witnessing anything. 

"I'll do it, they don't know me," said d'Artagnan.

"They met you yesterday," Porthos pointed out. "Besides, no offence, but how good are you with horses? And I don't mean your typical nags. These are highly strung, vicious brutes."

"Porthos only says this because one decided to taste of him."

"It took a chunk out of my shoulder, uniform and all."

Aramis chuckled softly.

"There is however, an element of truth to what Porthos says. These are temperamental animals. They require an experienced hand," said Athos. 

d'Artagnan pulled a face; reluctantly acknowledging that he might be out of his depth with such beasts.

"I could do it," said Aramis, suddenly. "What?" he asked, when they all looked at him. "I'm the best horseman among us."

That much was certainly true. Athos was a competent rider, but took little pleasure in it. Porthos hadn't done much riding prior to joining the regiment, and tolerated it for necessities sake. Aramis was the only one who actually enjoyed spending time in the saddle. Plus, his horse was as ill-tempered and temperamental as any in the King 's stable.

"Won't they recognize you too?" asked d'Artagnan.

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief. He had been desperately signalling Athos with his eyes to veto this plan, but it looked like the boy had found a way to do so without bloodshed.

"I can shave this off." Aramis stroked his chin. "And cut my hair short."

"What? No!" Porthos sputtered.

Aramis rounded on him, exasperation colouring his voice. "You saw what it was like, they have people coming and going all the time. They could barely recount all the names and faces."

That, unfortunately, was also true. The stable was a bloody nightmare, any one could get in there without being called on it. Someone would have to speak with Treville when all this was over.

"So what exactly is your objection? Unless you think I'm not capable?"

Porthos didn't need Athos sending him warning glances to know he was treading in dangerous territory. "If it were any day but this, you know I'd never doubt you."

Aramis looked betrayed. He turned to Athos. "Is that what you think?"

"I think you're the best horseman we have," said Athos, diplomatically. "The question is, do you feel up to it?"

"I can do this," said Aramis, firmly.

"Very well. The job is yours."

Aramis gave a curt nod, turned and left, without looking at Porthos,

Once he was out of earshot, Porthos stepped forward to confront Athos. "You know he's not ready for this."

Athos responded just as hotly. "What would you have me do, hmm? Order him to stand down?"

"Yes!"

"And if he challenged my authority and went to Treville, what then?"

"Treville would agree with you, you know that."

"Yes, and what do you think that would that do to Aramis? He would view it as a lack of faith in him."

"That isn't what this is about."

"No, but that's how he would see it," said Athos. "He would believe that we no longer trust in his judgement, or his abilities."

Porthos made a wordless sound of frustration. He found his pain and worry mirrored in his brother's gaze. "We don't let anything happen to him."

Athos put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Not while either of us still draws breath."


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis returned, ready to take on his role as a stable-hand. He had shaved so that only a hint of scruff remained, and donned boots, a simple shirt, and breeches that had all seen better days. Porthos took in the bruised shadows beneath his eyes and the sickly pallor of his skin and wanted to drag him back to his room. It certainly didn't help that without his usual fashionable attire and facial hair, Aramis appeared to be closer in age to d'Artagnan; something that hadn't escaped the younger man's notice judging by the sidelong glances Aramis was getting. However, Porthos had to concede that like this, Aramis was scarcely recognizable as the musketeer who had previously visited the stables.

"You'll do," Athos agreed. "Just try not to engage any one in conversation in case they should happen to recall you. And remember, you're only there to observe."

"Don't go taking them on by yourself," said Porthos.

"Oh, don't worry," said Aramis, tersely. "I hadn't forgotten that you don't trust me to handle this."

"I trust you more than any man alive," Porthos growled. "But you've hardly slept-"

"-and you haven't eaten," supplied Athos.

"We're just worried, that's all," d'Artagnan added, hesitantly.

"Yes, well, you can all keep your worry. Especially you." Aramis scowled at d'Artagnan. "I was soldiering when you were still clinging to your mother's skirts."

Athos had had enough. "Then act like one, and carry out your orders." He instantly regretted the harshness of his tone, softening it before he continued. "Try to eat something. We'll see you back at the garrison first thing tomorrow."

Aramis stared wide-eyed, but before Athos could say anything else he nodded brusquely and left.

"Well, that could have gone better," remarked Porthos, unhappily.

Athos sighed heavily. "You were right. He's not ready for this."

"And you're right. We can't stop him," said Porthos. "Not without having him think we've lost faith in him"

"But he'll be all right, won't he?" asked d'Artagnan. "I mean, whoever's doing this hasn't hurt anybody. They've been going after the horses."

"With a view to possibly causing harm to the King," Athos pointed out. "If this is deliberate, any one willing to do that could prove to be exceedingly dangerous if cornered."

"Aramis can take care of himself," said Porthos, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Ordinarily, he would have been sure of that. Aramis might not have Athos' skill with a sword, or his strength, but he was equally dangerous in combat, and normally level-headed whatever the situation.

****

Aramis' face prickled with heat as he walked away. If having Athos bark orders at him like a raw recruit hadn't been galling enough, it had stung to be dressed down in front of d'Artagnan. The worst of it was, Aramis knew his friends were not wrong. Aside from the bouts of dizziness, there was a weakness in his limbs that did not bode well for him if he was called upon to defend himself. He dare not admit to it - and risk being sent to bed like a child - for while d'Artagnan was a likable young man, Aramis was not yet ready to entrust him with his friends' lives.

He tried to eat a little bread on his way to the stables, but discarded it after only a few mouthfuls. Upon his arrival no one saw fit to question who he was. Aramis had only to say he had come to muck out, and he was handed a pitchfork and told to get on with it. Since no one came around all that often to oversee the work, Aramis rested whenever he could. To try and stave off the dizziness, he applied cool water, which helped a little. He observed the people who came and went throughout the day; most went sullenly about their duties without speaking. None seriously aroused his suspicions.

As the evening drew in, Aramis concealed himself in an empty stall and prepared to spend the night. Weary from the work and the heat, he found himself falling asleep, only to wake with a start at the slightest noise. Above his head was the occasional rustle of feathers and flutter of wings, as the birds in the rafters jostled for the best roost. It made his stomach lurch. He forcibly yanked his gaze away, and found himself staring into two beady black eyes that glinted in the moonlight. Aramis grabbed his pitchfork and jabbed it at the rat, breathing a sigh of relief when it disappeared into the next stall. He glanced nervously at the straw surrounding him, but could discern no other signs of life. Even so, he did not rest easy for the remainder of the night.

Morning arrived without further incident. Getting to his feet, Aramis was once again overtaken with dizziness. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against the cool stone wall and waited for it to pass. Finally ready to leave, he was startled by a bird swooping down to investigate some spilled feed. Aramis stumbled back, which fortunately meant he was out of sight when the person entered the stable.

Aramis shuffled further back still and concealed himself. While this could just be an early riser come to make a start on his day's work, all of Aramis' instincts screamed that it was not the case. He heard the man approach the stall housing the King 's new mount. Frustrated that he could neither hear nor see what was going on, Aramis decided to chance taking a look. Peering into the neighbouring stall, Aramis saw a roughly dressed man trying to soothe the agitated beast by stroking its neck. The horse was having none of it, and was becoming increasingly fractious in spite of the man's attempts to calm it. Aramis saw the moment it all tipped over into disaster, as the animal suddenly reared up and struck out. The man eluded the first flurry of hooves, but was knocked aside by the bulk of the horse's body. The second time it struck the man caught a glancing blow that saw him fall to the ground. He remained there, groaning.

The panicked horse reared up again.

Aramis darted forward, grabbing the man and rolling them both out of the way of the hooves as they crashed back down. He had scarcely time to gather his breath when the man pushed off him, staggering to his feet and backing away. With the terrified horse's focus on Aramis, the man took the opportunity to sidle towards the stall opening, ducking outside and leaving his rescuer behind.

If Aramis had been entertaining doubts regarding the man's culpability, they had just been dramatically reduced. The horse, meanwhile, was unable to process that the actual threat was gone, and continued to squeal and flail its hooves wildly; Aramis knew there was very little hope of him being able calm it. All he could do was try and stay out of harms way until he could make it outside. Unfortunately, the animal had positioned itself between Aramis and the opening. His luck ran out when the horse landed a kick on his forearm. The pain didn't register straight away. When it did, Aramis struggled to stay upright. He cradled his injured arm to his chest and sucked in a breath, clenching his teeth against the sounds he wanted to make, fearing they would further enrage the horse. God, it hurt. He breathed harshly through his nose, trying to suppress the agony that sent hot sparks up his arm with every jolt of motion. More worrisome still was the dizziness that threatened to drag him under. Aramis knew he had to get out before that happened, or face the very real prospect of being trampled to death. He redoubled his efforts to reach the opening. Finally, he saw an opportunity. Knowing this was going to hurt, Aramis did his best to prepare himself, but as he flung himself forward and rolled out of the stall, the pain proved to much and he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think of this chapter. I don't want to make any one ooc :)


	6. Chapter 6

When Aramis didn't turn up at the garrison that morning as prearranged, Porthos and Athos wasted no time heading out to the stables with d'Artagnan. Having picked up on their tension, he refrained from asking questions, though he did wonder if Aramis had tried to apprehend whoever was responsible. From their admittedly short acquaintance, he thought it quite likely. He wished he knew exactly what was going on. He understood that the musketeers had been shaken by the loss of several of their number in such a foul manner, but Aramis seemed to be taking it particularly hard. A small, churlish part of d'Artagnan wanted to rail at them and ask what made their grief so singular. His father was dead; the man who had raised him, and upon whose guidance he had still very much relied. He had been set adrift without that familiar anchor. He followed these men because he honestly didn't know what else to do. He had no real desire to return home. It would scarcely feel like one now. Although, if pressed, d'Artagnan would also have had to confess that the brief taste of danger and excitement had woken something in him

They arrived at the stables and almost at once a man ran up to them in an agitated state. Recognising the blue cloaks of the musketeers, he asked for their assistance. The stable hands had apparently caught someone attempting to poison the King's horse. While that sounded very promising, privately d'Artagnan thought it was a little late in the day for them to be showing any diligence. Also, where was Aramis? That question was soon to be answered as they were taken to a outbuilding and sitting on the floor, with his hands bound in front of him and a pitchfork at his throat, was the third musketeer. Porthos made an indistinct sound of rage and practically threw the men aside in order to reach his friend. Athos had already drawn his dagger and was rushing forward to cut his bonds.

"My arm, my arm," Aramis gasped.

Scowling at the stable workers, who scuttled further back, d'Artagnan stepped forward to take a look. He winced in sympathy. "Is it broken?"

Athos was manipulating the arm gently, his face was tight with worry. "I think so."

Porthos spun around and confronted the now terrified looking men. "Which of you did this?" he roared.

"No... no... " One of them stammered. "We didn't... "

"It was already broken," supplied another, helpfully.

"And you tied him up?" Athos' voice held a note of forced calm that didn't bode well for their future.

"He tried to poison his Majesty's horse," blurted out the man who had held the pitchfork. He had wisely thrown down his weapon.

"This man is a musketeer," said Porthos. He had crouched, supporting Aramis as Athos checked him over. Aramis skin had waxy sheen that spoke of the start of a fever.

"What?" The stable hand closest to d'Artagnan turned pale. "But he had this." He held out a small vial.

d'Artagnan relieved him of it and carefully removed the stopper. He took a cautious sniff and scrunched up his face, replacing the stopper again quickly.

"Most likely the other man dropped it," said Athos. Removing his glove he placed his hand on Aramis' forehead, frowning at the warmth he felt there.

"Other man? There was no other man."

"Probably because he had already driven him off," said Porthos, angrily. He looked at Athos. "How is he?"

" _He_ can speak for himself," said Aramis. "I'm perfectly fine aside from my arm. You're right, someone else was here." He coughed and gasped as the action sent pain shuddering through him.

"Be quiet, you fool," said Athos; his expression belied the harshness of his words. "We need to get him back to the garrison."

"What about the other man?" d'Artagnan asked.

"That can wait."

"And them?" asked Porthos, indicating the frightened stable hands with a tilt of his jaw.

"They can wait too," said Athos. "We need a clean cart," he ordered. "Bring one, with some blankets." The stable hands almost fell over one another in their haste to to be first through the doorway.

"We really need to work on your people skills," said Aramis, as they got him to his feet. If he had been pale, it was nothing in comparison to the way the colour drained from his face the instant he was upright.

D'Artagnan privately applauded the ease with which the pair were able to hold their friend, whilst avoiding the mess as he threw up. Athos produced a flask, helping Aramis swill his mouth; while Porthos used his own bandanna to wipe his face. They then half led, half carried Aramis outside; a cart was waiting, piled high with blankets. Porthos clambered up first, and together they helped Aramis to get settled.

Athos tied Porthos' horse to the cart. "Are you all right to sit up front?" he asked d'Artagnan, who bristled at the implication that he was the most suited to this task. D'artagnan's indignation was rapidly overtaken by embarrassment, however, as Athos continued. "Porthos will of course want to ride in the back with Aramis and I must ride ahead to inform the Captain." There was a hint of amusement that suggested Athos had not missed D'Artagnan's hasty assumption.

D'artagnan felt his face grow hot. "Of course," he replied quickly, ducking his head as he tied his own horse up alongside Porthos'.

"I'll see you back at the garrison," said Athos, as he mounted up and rode out of the gate.

D'Artagnan pulled himself up onto the seat of the cart.

"Mind you don't hit too many bumps," Porthos warned.

"Leave the boy alone," said Aramis. "Ignore him," he called out to d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan bit his lip to hide his amusement as Aramis addressed his friend again. "I swear you're worse than a hen with a chick. I'm not going to break."

"Yeah? Well, your arm says otherwise. How did that happen, anyway?"

D'Artagnan trusted the road to the horses for a moment as he glanced back. Porthos was sitting with his legs stretched out, Aramis between them, leaning against his chest. Porthos had a protective arm around his friend, cushioning Aramis from the worst motions of the cart. It was clear from what d'Artagnan could see of Aramis' face that he didn't want to reply to the question.

"The horse," Aramis admitted, finally.

"The horse?"

"It kicked me, all right," Aramis huffed. "But you can hardly fault the beast. The man had spooked it."

"So, you were in the stall with this man and the horse he was trying to nobble?"

D'Artagnan winced. Porthos didn't sound too happy. He returned his attention to the road, but couldn't help but overhear the rest of the conversation.

"You told me to observe," said Aramis, smartly. "I was trying to observe."

"You were supposed to observe from a distance."

From the frustration in his voice, d'Artagnan gathered that this was far from the first time Aramis had given Porthos cause to worry.

"Yes, well, neither of you specified how far," Aramis pointed out.

Porthos rumbled unhappily.

"You know, I'm sure d'Artagnan could see his way to take me back to the garrison. Your time would be better spent trying to find this man."

"We'll go back, if that's what the Captain orders us to do, once we've got you taken care of," said Porthos. His tone brook no room for argument.

"Fine. Don't blame me if he's crossed the border into Spain by then," Aramis muttered.

"Why don't you tell me what he looked like."

"Not so tall as you, broader than me. Shabbily dressed. Close cropped dark hair. Swarthy skin - although that could just have been the dirt. No discerning marks that I could see. No wait, his knuckles were scarred. That I do remember."

"A fighter then?" said Porthos.

"A brawler at least," agreed Aramis. "I didn't hear his voice, not clearly. So, I can't tell you where he came from, sorry."

"Could he have been Spanish?"

"He could have been anything. Spanish; Dutch; English. He was certainly ill-mannered enough."

"What do you mean? I thought you didn't hear him speak."

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Aramis."

"I'm tired. My arm hurts."

"Aramis."

"Fine. He left me, all right. I saved his miserable worthless neck, and he left me to be trampled."

"He's a dead man," said Porthos, fiercely.

When d'Artagnan glanced back, Aramis was patting his friend's arm with his good hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Aramis' comments as to the possible nationality of the horse poisoner - it is not my intention to cast a slur on any nation. This is fiction. These are characters ;)


	7. Chapter 7

With every pained sound that escaped Aramis during the journey, Porthos' temper ratcheted up another notch. Perhaps he would volunteer to teach hand-to-hand fighting down at the stable. Surely, it would make sense for the men that worked there to be able to protect the King's property, and if he should happen to bruise his knuckles on a few of them during training, they could hardly complain. He would be teaching them an important life skill, after all.

Porthos was brought out of his vengeful revere as the cart came to a particularly bad patch of road and Aramis stiffened in his arms. "Aramis?" Porthos craned his neck to see, and discovered Aramis biting down on his lip, clearly struggling not to cry out. "Oi, mind how you drive this thing," Porthos shouted to d'Artagnan.

"It's not me, it's the road," said d'Artagnan, defensively. "How's Aramis doing?"

"He'd be a lot better if you'd stop trying to find every hole between here and the garrison."

"I'm... all... right," Aramis replied between staccato breaths.

"Of course you are. That's why you're trying to bite through your lip. Are you sure you didn't hurt your ribs?" Porthos asked, worriedly.

"Quite... sure," said Aramis, tersely.

"Your breathing doesn't sound right."

"That's... just... the... motion... of the... cart."

"Do you need me to stop?" d'Artagnan called out.

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes," Porthos repeated. His glower was somewhat wasted since it was directed at the back of Aramis' head.

"Rider coming," said d'Artagnan, urgently.

Porthos' fingers closed around his musket; he relaxed at d'Artagnan's next words.

"It's Athos."

Athos pulled his horse up along side. "I had thought to see you back at the garrison by now. Is there a reason for the delay, gentlemen?" He levelled a concerned look at Aramis before directing a querying eyebrow at Porthos.

"He's having trouble breathing."

"I'm... not," Aramis panted.

Athos frowned and dismounted. He climbed up into the cart and gently tilted Aramis' face toward him. "Your pallor would suggest otherwise. Your ribs?"

"He says not," said Porthos.

"I... may... have... inhaled..." Aramis broke off coughing; and then groaned as it reverberated through his arm. His friends could only look on helplessly until the spasm had passed. "The... bottle," he finished, breathlessly.

"What?" Porthos and d'Artagnan spoke almost as one.

Athos pulled a flask from his doublet and held it to Aramis' lips. He waited until Aramis had taken several mouthfuls before questioning him. "How?"

"At... the stables... they wanted to know... what... it... was. I couldn't..."

Athos held the flask out again, but Aramis shook his head and pressed on.

"I... couldn't... answer... threatened to... make... me... drink... it."

"They what?" Porthos growled.

"Held... it... to my... face."

"And you breathed it in," finished Athos. "I gave the bottle to Treville. We need to find out exactly what's in it."

"But he didn't drink any of it, so he'll be fine. Won't he?" d'Artagnan asked, worriedly.

"That rather depends on what it was," said Athos. "You found the fumes hard to tolerate?"

d'Artagnan nodded.

"Was the odour familiar at all? Did it put you in mind you of anything?"

D'Artagnan frowned. "Honestly, it didn't really have an odour. It stung. My throat, my eyes - everything. I couldn't have stood it willingly for very long." He eyed the wheezing Aramis sympathetically.

Aramis' friends observed him anxiously as he hunched over, overcome by yet another fit of coughing. When he finally stopped, Aramis remained with his head bowed staring down at his hand.

"Aramis?" Athos froze when Aramis looked up. "Aramis, did you bite your lip? Your tongue?" Please, God. Let it be that, Athos prayed desperately.

Porthos reached for Aramis' hand and made a sound like a wounded animal when he found the flecks of blood.

"We need to get him to a physician, now," said Athos. He was already clambering over the front of the cart to take the reins from d'Artagnan. "Take Porthos' horse," he instructed. "Find the Captain. Tell him what's happened. We need to know what was in that bottle."

D'Artagnan nodded. He jumped down from the cart and quickly hauled himself up into the saddle. He spared one last glance at his friends - Athos' face a tightly controlled mask; Porthos cradling Aramis, wearing a look of devastation that made d'Artagnan's heart clench in fear . He jabbed his heels into his mount and spurred it forward, racing back to the garrison.

******

"I really am sorry."

Porthos took a step forward at the physician's words, Athos gently restrained him with a hand on his arm. "Is there nothing at all that might aid his recovery?"

The man shook his head. "Normally, in cases like this I would recommend purging, but if he didn't ingest any of the poison, there's very little point and I fear it would only weaken him further."

"Is there anything we could try?" pressed Treville. He had accompanied the physician, having ensured that the bottle was now in the hands of men who could decipher its contents.

"You could try encouraging him to drink as much as he is able to keep down. He probably won't feel like it, but that may help to force the poisonous miasmas from his body. Also broth, if he can manage it."

Treville nodded grimly. "Thank you."

"Have hope," said the physician, kindly. "He is young and strong, and it seems likely he didn't ingest the poison, which is good. It may be that the effects will dissipate over time."

Treville glanced at his men. D'Artagnan had tucked himself away in the furthest corner, arms wrapped around his middle and youthful features weighted with sorrow. Porthos was practically shaking from the rage and grief that contorted his expression. Athos wore the look of a man facing an unbearable truth.

Treville turned his attention to the man lying on the narrow cot. Aramis had been washed to remove all possible traces of the poison, his clothes taken away to be burned. He was propped up against several pillows to aid his breathing, which had taken on a horrible raspy quality. Aramis was conscious, but refrained from speaking too much since it induced fierce bouts of coughing that brought up more of the bloody phlegm. However, Aramis' expressive eyes told of the man's misery at his condition and his concern for his friends.

"The Aramis I know, is a soldier to his very core. He will fight this to the best of his ability, of that I am certain." Treville included them all in his gaze. He was their Captain first and foremost, and he would order them to get through this if that was what it took. Rarely a tactile man, he reached down and gave Aramis' arm a gentle pat, taking note of the dry heat that radiated from Aramis' skin. "Let them look after you." It was unlikely that Aramis had it in him to be an obstinate patient this time, but it wouldn't hurt to point out that his friends needed this chance to care for him, every bit as much as Aramis needed caring for.

With a final nod to his men, Treville led the physician from the room. He extracted a promise from the man to call upon Aramis at regular intervals before bidding him good day. Treville didn't return to his office; he had already decided that the day's work could wait until after he had paid a personal visit to the King's stables to _discuss_ what had occurred.


	8. Chapter 8

Treville's parting words spurred Athos into action. "Porthos." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Porthos, we're going to need supplies. Do you want to stay with Aramis, or-"

"I'll stay," said Porthos, firmly, pulling up the stool beside the bed and sitting down.

Athos answered with a nod and a brief smile, before turning to address D'Artagnan. "Then will you accompany me?"

D'Artagnan pushed himself away from the wall. "Of course," he agreed, readily.

"Try to behave in our absence," Athos told Aramis, lightening his tone in an attempt to alleviate the tension in the room.

Aramis mimed an innocent look, putting his uninjured hand to his chest in an all too familiar 'Who, me?' gesture.

With Athos and d'Artagnan gone, it was left to Porthos to try and fill the silence. "At least your arm's not broken."

Aramis' eyebrows traveled up towards his hairline.

Porthos winced. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm terrible at this." He sniffed and sat up straighter. "But you're going to be all right." He placed his hand over Aramis'. "You're going to be fine," he reiterated more forcefully, as though he could make it true simply by willing it so.

"You needn't sit with me if it distresses you," Aramis offered gently, his voice a painful rasp.

"You would send me away?" Porthos asked, sounding very much like he would fall on his sword, rather than leave.

Aramis didn't try to speak again. He simply shook his head and turned his hand over to thread their fingers together.

When Athos and d'Artagnan returned, Aramis had drifted off to sleep with Porthos still holding onto his hand. D'Artagnan entered the room first and almost dropped what he was carrying. "Is he-"

Porthos hushed him with a scowl.

Comprehension struck almost at once, and d'Artagnan's mouth formed a relieved 'Oh'. He and Athos quietly set their items down. They included broth from cook, several changes of sheets for the bed, and buckets, in preparation for what promised to be an unpleasant few days.

*****

Aramis continued to decline, by nightfall he was in the grip of a fever that saw him fight their every effort to help. His glazed eyes stared at unseen phantoms as he cried out for people long since laid in the earth, and railed against others unknown to his friends. They stripped him and bathed him with cool water, trying to reduce the frightening the heat coming off his body. They spoke to him in an attempt to break the hold the fever had on him. Aramis fought them like a man possessed, knocking d'Artagnan to the floor at one point, and landing a blow that left Athos checking all teeth still sat securely within his jaw. Porthos wept as finally he was forced to use his strength against his friend, silent tears pouring down his face as he pinned Aramis to the bed.

Throughout the night Aramis continued to cry out and curse, before breaking off into painful, racking coughs, spitting blood and phlegm.

Morning saw all four men exhausted. Aramis' fever had broken shortly before dawn; though the dreadful stillness that now laid claim to him, proved no less disturbing than the raving that had proceeded it. The oppressive quiet was broken only by the sound of his breath rattling weakly in his chest.

Porthos went down onto his knees and took Aramis' hand in his, lowering his head as he closed his eyes and prayed aloud to the God that Aramis loved so devotedly.

D'Artagnan's stricken gaze took in the scene, then he turned around and hastened from the room. Athos followed him outside.

D'Artagnan slid down the wall into a crouch, he buried his face in his folded arms.

Athos crouched down beside him. '"D'Artagnan?"

At the sound of Athos' voice, d'Artagan reacted as if startled, clearly unaware he had company. He scrubbed at his damp eyes. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled. "Give me a moment. I'll come back in."

Athos had not forgotten that d'Artagnan was still struggling with the loss of his father. Athos softened his voice. "It was not my intention to fetch you back. I came to see if you were all right."

"He's going to die, isn't he?"

Confronted with this youthful honesty, Athos had to look away. When he looked back, his eyes were wet and his bottom lip bore indentations from his teeth. "I don't know," he replied, honestly. "I do know that if any man can beat this, that man is Aramis."

"What will Porthos do if he doesn't?"

Athos could only shake his head. Privately, he wondered what either of them would do. They were the inseparables. Perhaps it was foolish for men who lived as they did, but somehow the very idea of carrying on without one of the others was too agonizing to contemplate.

Athos rearranged himself with his back to the wall and his legs outstretched. After a while d'Artagnan mirrored his pose. Athos said nothing when the younger man slumped against him, exhaustion outweighing grief for the time being. Athos felt his own eyelids grow heavier and was unaware when his own head came to rest against d'Artagnan's.

*****

"Athos!"

Athos jolted awake. He had no idea how much time had passed since he and d'Artagnan had gone to sit outside. Hearing Porthos shout, Athos felt as though an icy shard had pierced his chest. He got up carefully, trying not to waken the still slumbering d'Artagnan.

Gripping the doorjamb, Athos paused on the threshold to take a steadying breath. He entered the room with a leaden gait. However, far from the scene he expected, Porthos' eyes shone with hope, not grief.

"He said my name," explained Porthos, joyously. "He opened his eyes and looked at me, and he knew me."

"And he spoke? You are certain he said your name?"

"Not as such," Porthos admitted, reluctantly. "But he definitely recognized me, and he tried to say it. As God is my witness, Athos, I swear he did."

"I believe you," said Athos, moving closer to the bed. He sat down carefully on the edge and put his hand on top of Aramis'. "Aramis?" He did not really anticipate a response, though in his heart, he hoped. His fingers tightened involuntarily when Aramis' eyelids flickered and opened to reveal dark eyes that were no longer bright with fever, and Athos saw recognition in their depths, just as Porthos had said.

The words came out before Athos thought to stop them. "You look dreadful."

The corners of Aramis' mouth actually curved up, and he tilted his jaw slightly toward Athos.

Porthos huffed a laugh.

Athos stared at him.

"He thinks you ought to take a look at yourself."

Porthos' reading of Aramis rang true when Athos looked back, and he saw the familiar teasing warmth in his friend's eyes. Athos felt his throat close up. He withdrew his hand and stood.

Porthos caught him by the arm before he could make good his retreat. "Athos?"

Athos swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I should check on d'Artagnan."

"No need, he's here," said Porthos, directing Athos' gaze to the doorway.

D'Artagnan called out before Athos could turn to look. "Aramis!" D'Artagnan's rush towards the bed was intercepted.

"Easy. He's not quite ready to have you go charging at him yet."

Still beaming, d'Artagnan shook his head sheepishly. "No, of course not. I wasn't going to-" D'Artagnan broke off abruptly when Aramis weakly batted his leg.

"Come here," Aramis instructed, holding out a trembling arm.

D'Artagnan dropped to his knees and carefully returned the proffered embrace, expressing his heartfelt relief to see Aramis awake.

Aramis patted his back and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Surely you didn't think I would leave you alone with these two. That would be terribly remiss of me-" Aramis started to cough and d'Artagnan drew back worriedly.

"Don't go over doing it," Porthos scolded, stepping forward to help Aramis to sit up as Athos poured him a drink.

The wheezing coughing fit eventually ended and Aramis sank back against the pillows piled up behind him. He regarded them all with a roll of his eyes. "Oh, do stop looking so gloomy. I'm not on my death bed."

Aramis might not have been quite so disparaging of their concern had he been in possession of a looking glass. Aside from the bruised, sunken shadows beneath his eyes, his skin still carried the taint of sickness. His lips were dry and cracked, and his hair was plastered to his skull with the remnants of feverish sweat. In short, he looked very much like a man on his death bed. The tremor in his voice and the rasp to his breathing did nothing to reduce that impression.

"He's right," said Athos. "You need to rest. And eat," he added.

Aramis pulled a face. "Not hungry."

"Nevertheless, Porthos and d'Artagnan will see to it that you eat something. You need to rebuild your strength. I'll go and inform the Captain of your impending recovery. Be good, brother." Athos looked pointedly at Aramis, and his heart felt lighter than it had in days when Aramis huffed and conceded with an ungracious nod.

*****

Treville didn't pass comment on Athos' dishevelled state, or his lack of proper attire - Athos had merely rolled down his sleeves before giving his report. Instead, he ordered Athos into a chair and got out a bottle of the good stuff to toast the news Athos brought. "Thank God those damn idiots didn't make him drink any of it." Treville reached across his desk to hand Athos a piece of paper. "Our poisoner apparently decided to try a few additional ingredients this time. It's unlikely the unfortunate animal would have survived."

Athos read down the list, briefly closing his eyes as the room seemed to tilt. He placed the paper on the desk and downed the remainder of his drink. "And for someone who has inhaled it?"

"I was told apart from sickness and fever, it could render a man senseless," Treville paused, adding, "and that not all those afflicted would recover their wits."

Athos' breath hitched in his chest. "Might I inquire if the gentlemen at the stables have been made to see the error of their ways?"

Treville smiled humourlessly. "They have. Suffice to say, they'll not be trying anything like that in future." He shook his head disparagingly. "Fools. Even if they had succeeded in getting the right man, we'd have learned nothing from him if he'd succumbed to the effects of his own poison."

"He may still try again."

Treville exhaled heavily. "I know Aramis isn't ready to be left alone just yet, but I can't have all three of you off duty."

"Could Porthos perhaps stay with Aramis, while d'Artagnan and I continue to look into this matter?"

"The Gascon boy?"

Athos nodded.

Treville appeared to consider this. "Very well. Tell Porthos he is excused from duty." Treville called after Athos as the other man reached the door. "And tell him I wish him luck."

Athos glanced back, and the two men shared a look that said they both understood why Porthos would need it.


	9. Chapter 9

Athos was finally able to convince a reluctant Porthos that he should rest. After pointing out that he and d'Artagnan had already slept. However, Porthos refused to leave the room, bedding down on the floor, despite Aramis' protestations.

"At least lie here with me."

"The bed's too narrow."

"Porthos-"

"I'm good here. You should rest."

"He's right." They both looked at d'Artagnan. "You sound terrible."

Aramis sounded like he had been swallowing ground up glass. Though judging by the look he gave d'Artagnan, he didn't take kindly to having that pointed out. Aramis tried to appeal once more to Porthos. "I will rest better with you beside me."

Porthos wavered, but then shook his head, citing Aramis' arm as the reason. The physician had been confident that no bones were broken, but it had not escaped their notice that Aramis still cradled it gingerly against his chest. "You need the room. That arm doesn't want jostling."

"Gentlemen, please, get some rest," said Athos.

Aramis' gaze narrowed. "You're going back to the stables?"

"We have our orders."

Aramis attempted to push himself further up the bed. "You are not going alone?"

Athos hastened to his side and stilled him with a gentle hand. "I am not going alone."

"I'm going with him."

Aramis' gaze lighted briefly on d'Artagnan, then he turned back to his friend. "Take Porthos."

D'Artagnan frowned.

"I mean no offense," said Aramis, seeing d'Artagnan's expression. "But this is musketeer business." He stared at Athos, willing him to listen. "Take Porthos," he repeated.

Porthos started to rise. Athos waved him back down. "Porthos needs to rest. As do you."

"The man you are hunting is dangerous-"

Athos lightly touched Aramis' good arm. "Rest. I will take no undue risks."

Aramis seized Athos' doublet as he drew away. "I want your word. Promise me that you will not engage this man without provocation."

There was a note of genuine regret in Athos' voice. "I am sorry, I cannot. He almost cost you your life. I will see him dead. By my hand or the noose." Athos carefully loosened Aramis' fingers and stood. He motioned for d'Artagnan to follow him, nodding to Porthos as he left.

D'Artagnan stared helplessly at the distraught man on the bed. "I will watch out for him," he promised.

"Go on," said Porthos. "I've got this. You keep your eye on Athos." As D'Artagnan hurried to catch up with Athos. Porthos got up from the floor and walked over to the bed. "If I lie here will you at least try to sleep?" Aramis' answer was to shuffle sideways to make more room. Porthos caught the grimace, but didn't comment. Porthos could feel fine tremors running through Aramis; though whether it was a result of the poison or the conversation with Athos, Porthos could not say.

Instead, he put forward a question that was troubling him. "You don't honestly believe Athos can't handle this by himself, do you?"

Aramis sighed heavily before attempting to speak; unfortunately this induced another bout of violent coughing.

"Sorry," said Porthos, unhappily. "I shouldn't have asked. Don't try to speak."

Aramis shook his head fiercely and waited for the coughing spell to ease. "I... can... talk."

"Don't-"

"No. I.. can..."

"All right," agreed Porthos, reluctantly.

"I cannot... speak for his... abilities as a swordsman... but he is... determined... and we do not... not... know if he is... working alone." Aramis was breathing loudly and harshly by the end.

Porthos eyed him worriedly. "Aramis?"

Aramis had begun to wheeze, his eyes widening as he struggled to draw breath.

Porthos cursed and got off the bed. Aramis curled forward, gasping. His injured arm caught on the covers and he made a choked sound, unable to cry out. Porthos rubbed his back. "Slow, remember? In. Out. In. Out. Breathe with me. In. Out." Porthos continued to breathe deeply in and out until Aramis was able to match his rhythm.

Porthos unfurled Aramis' fingers, which were balled into fists.

"I... hate... this," said Aramis, hoarsely. Tears of exertion had formed in the corners of his eyes and he thumbed them away roughly.

"It'll pass."

"Will... it?"

Porthos didn't like the tone of defeat in Aramis' voice. "Of course it will. You just need to rest and build up your strength."

"What... if... this... is... how it... will always... be?"

"Don't talk like that. You already sound stronger."

Aramis eyed him in obvious disbelief.

"You are," Porthos insisted. "Last night-" He paused, reluctant to speak his fears aloud. Porthos forced himself to go on. "Last night we thought you wouldn't make it through to the morning. That's why I wouldn't sleep. I couldn't... I... " Porthos' voice failed him and he shook his head in frustration.

"Porthos..."

Pothos didn't let him finish. "Fight, Aramis. Don't let this beat you. We need you. I need you. You have to fight."

Aramis nodded slowly. "You... know... that... I will."

*****

D'Artagnan caught up with Athos as he walked across the courtyard. "Why are we heading back to the stables? Surely this man won't try again? Not when he was so very nearly caught?"

"That is assuming the man is of sound mind," said Athos, accepting the reins from the boy who had led his horse out of its stall.

D'Artagnan walked around Athos' horse to reach his own mount and swung himself into the saddle. "Then you think this is the work of a mad man?"

"I believe this is a man who is set on a particular course of action. He has not varied his methods even when they failed to produce the desired result. I cannot speak for his state of mind, but it seems to me that it is quite probable he will try again. Though he may be more circumspect in his actions."

"How so?" D'Artagnan asked, giving his horse a nudge to match the gait of Athos' mount.

"If he is not alone in this, he may send someone else in his stead. Or he may simply be more cautious in his approach. He was not expecting any one to be lying in wait for him."

"And now he will be," said d'Artagnan. "So how do we catch him?"

"By making him believe that he is no longer of interest to us."

D'Artagnan frowned.

"We are going to make an arrest."

"But we still don't know who he is."

Athos' expression was inscrutable. "Not yet, no."

"Then how will we know who to arrest?" asked a confused d'Artagnan.

"I did not say the person we are going to arrest is guilty of any wrong doing."

"Then why are we going to arrest them?"

"Because the man we want will not know that."

D'Artagnan's confusion was replaced by a look of comprehension. "So, he will believe that we are no longer looking for him. And hopefully try again."

"That is the hope, yes."

"So, who did you get to agree to play the part of our prisoner?"

One corner of Athos' mouth lifted up. "Let us see who draws our attention when we arrive."


	10. Chapter 10

Treville's report named the stable-hand responsible for holding the fateful bottle. This was the man Athos wanted. The Captain must have put the fear of God into all those involved, for their questions drew nervous looks and stammered replies. Eventually, they found him.

He spotted them walking toward him. Puzzlement was quickly replaced by alarmed recognition and dropping what he was doing, the stable-hand turned and fled. Athos and D'Artagnan took off after him. He did not get very far before he was knocked to the ground and held there with a knee pressed firmly to his back.

Athos gave d'Artagnan a nod of approval before addressing their squirming prisoner.

"Jacques Coté. I arrest you in the King's name."

"What? No. I am innocent!"

"We haven't told you what you're being accused of yet," said d'Artagnan.

"I haven't done anything!"

Athos' gaze narrowed.

"You poisoned a musketeer."

"That was an accident! I didn't mean to!"

"You held the bottle in front of his face," said d'Artagnan, pressing down a little harder with his knee.

"We thought he was the poisoner!"

"Also," said Athos, "you are charged with poisoning the King's horse."

Coté's protests fell upon deaf ears as he was hauled to his feet, his hands bound in front of him. He protested all the more loudly when it became clear that Athos intended to drape him across the saddle of a loaned horse for the return journey.

"You cannot. I will be ill," Coté wailed piteously.

Athos eyed him coldly. D'Artagnan showed less restraint.

"You should have thought of that before you poisoned our friend. An uncomfortable journey is far less than he has endured."

"I am not to blame!"

"He was poisoned by your hand," d'Artagnan reminded him.

"I didn't know he was a musketeer!"

"Tell it to the judge," said d'Artagnan. He assisted Athos in hoisting Coté over the horse; head hanging down toward the ground on one side, feet on the other.

There weren't long into their journey before Coté began to whine that he was going to be ill. He fell silent when Athos threatened to have him dragged behind the animal instead.

After handing over their prisoner, d'Artagnan and Athos went back to the garrison. Aramis was sitting outside with a blanket over his knees. Porthos stood nearby, scowling.

"He insisted. And I thought a bit of fresh air couldn't hurt. But now he wants to go and see the Captain."

"He does remember that the Captain's office is up a flight of stairs?"

" _He_ is sitting right here," said Aramis, coldly.

D'Artagnan decided it might be wise to leave Athos and Porthos to handle this situation.

"I am sure the Captain will come and speak with you soon enough," said Athos.

"I did not give him my report."

"I believe he will make allowances."

"He's not going to chase you for it while you're sick," said Porthos.

"I am well enough, and I wish to make my report," said Aramis.

"Very well." Athos ignored the incredulous looks from Porthos and d'Artagnan, stepping aside to clear the path to the office. "Is the Captain up there now?"

"Yes."

"Then if you wish to speak with him, we will not stop you." Athos signalled for Porthos to remain silent with the barest shake of his head.

Aramis pushed the blanket off his legs and stood. He steadied himself and walked forward.

"Is this a good idea?" d'Artagnan hissed quietly in Athos' ear.

"Probably not," Porthos muttered.

Athos waited until Aramis had walked several steps before answering d'Artagnan's question.

"Aramis rarely heeds advice if it concerns his own well-being. Experience has taught us that it is best to let him learn for himself, no matter how painful the lesson."

Aramis managed the short distance to the steps, where he paused with a hand on the balustrade before he began his ascent. It did not escape their notice that he was getting slower, or that his shoulders were hunched, with a hand on his chest as though to ward off a cough. Or the tremors that were visible from where they stood. Porthos took a step forward, Athos put a hand on his shoulder.

"Not yet."

He glanced at a doubtful looking d'Artagnan. "The important thing is to be there for him when-" He stopped as he and Porthos suddenly rushed forward, reaching Aramis' side as he stumbled.

Aramis face was frighteningly pale save for the twin spots of high colour that stained his cheeks. Sweat dotted his brow as he drew in a shaky breath.

"My friends... it appears I may have..." He didn't finish as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed like an unstrung marionette into Porthos' waiting arms.

"Satisfied?" Porthos asked.

Athos frowned.

"We should take him back to his room."

"Do you need any help?" d'Artagnan asked, looking worriedly at Aramis' limp form.

"He needs to rest," said Athos. "And be discouraged from exerting himself further."

"Not doing a very good job of that, are we," said Porthos, standing with Aramis in his arms.

Athos's tugged off a glove and placed his hand on Aramis' forehead.

"He does not feel feverish. Most likely he overtaxed himself. I thought he would come to his senses sooner and abandon his attempt."

Seeing Athos' troubled expression, Porthos tried to alleviate his guilt as they headed back to Aramis' room with d'Artagnan in tow .

"It's not your fault. I should have insisted he stayed in his bed. He's too good at getting his own way."

Athos glanced back at d'Artagnan, ensuring he was not within listening distance as he lowered his voice.

"I think we should allow d'Artagnan to care for Aramis in our absence."

Porthos eyed him doubtfully as they settled Aramis on the bed.

"D'Artagnan? You really think he can get Aramis to listen to him?"

"His concern is genuine, that much seems clear, and I have little doubt he will follow a direct order if it comes from the right source."

"Who's going to give the order? You?"

Athos was unable to say anything further as d'Artagnan entered the room, coming to join them by the bed.

He looked quizzically at them.

"What is it? Should I fetch the physician?"

"No, but if you would sit with him for a moment? I have something I must attend to," said Athos.

"Of course," said d'Artagnan. He sat by, looking a little helpless, as Porthos removed Aramis' boots and covered him up.

Athos made his way to the Captain's office, rapping sharply on the door.

"Come in."

Treville looked up from his paperwork.

"Ah, Athos. How goes the search for our poisoner?"

"We have a man in custody. Though not guilty of the crime, I believe he may offer us the means to discover who is."

Treville harrumphed, clearly he had been hoping for better news. "Was there something else?" he asked, when Athos made no move to leave.

"Aramis wishes to make his report."

Treville arched an eyebrow in surprise.

"Is he well enough?"

"No," said Athos.

"He's trying to do too much?" Treville guessed.

"Exactly so," said Athos. "I had thought to leave d'Artagnan to oversee his care while Porthos and I return to the stables, but it might be better if that direction came from you?"

Treville's mouth twitched in amusement.

"You want me to order d'Artagnan to watch Aramis?"

Athos gave a small shrug.

"Very well." Treville rose from behind his desk. "Where is he now?"

"In Aramis' room."

"Then allow me to give him his orders. It's time he learned of the less enjoyable aspects of being a musketeer."

****

Though unhappy at being left behind, D'Artagnan took his responsibility seriously and refused to allow Aramis out of bed. To this end, his worried gaze proved far more effective than either Porthos' scowl or Athos' disapproving stare.

After Aramis accepted d'Artagnan's offer to play a few hands of cards, d'Artagnan watched him fight off a yawn.

"You could go to sleep?"

"No... I will... wait... for them... to return."

The breathless quality of Aramis' voice drew a frown from d'Artagnan, who poured him a cup of honey water. Aramis sipped it gratefully. D'Artagnan took the cup from him when he was done, and placed it back on the table.

"I could wake you when they return?" he offered.

The corners of Aramis' mouth curved upward. "Do you think... they... would... let you?"

D'Artagnan conceded the point and Aramis directed his attention toward a small chest in the corner of the room.

"You could... read... to me."

D'Artagnan selected a book of poetry, after glancing through the contents to confirm they were not all of a romantic nature. He found one that spoke of Spanish hills, orange groves, and vivid blue skies.

Aramis' eyes were closed by the time he got to the third verse. D'Artgnan softened his voice, and before he came to the last line, Aramis was asleep.

*****

Athos and Porthos faced a sleepless night. Like Aramis, they positioned themselves in an empty stall close to the King's horse. They too shared the space with rats and roosting birds.

Porthos listened to the rustle of feather and the occasional harsh flap of wings as the birds settled themselves.

"No wonder Aramis was so bloody twitchy."

He shuffled about on the straw, trying to get comfortable.

"Do you really think this poisoner's going to try his luck again tonight? He surely must know the noose is closing around his neck."

"He has already attempted to make his poison more potent, which implies a certain urgency. I do not believe he will be able to prevent himself from making another attempt."

"You think he's mad then?"

"Whether he is mad, or merely dedicated to achieving his aims remains to be seen. After all, the King has many enemies, both at home and abroad."

"So, either an anti-royalist lunatic, or an ordinary lunatic then."

"Quite so."

Both men fell silent as they waited. Evening turned to night, and then to dawn with the first pale traces of morning sunlight. Soon the stable hands would be starting their day. It was then that Athos and Porthos heard a noise that could not be dismissed as one of the resident creatures. Athos caught Porthos' gaze and put a finger to his lips. Porthos nodded and they stood quietly.

The intruder matched the description provided by Aramis. Even had he not, his presence in the King's stables at this hour was enough for them to challenge him.

"Hold there," said Athos, stepping forward with his pistol drawn. Unfortunately, the action also startled a roosting pigeon that flapped into his face. The man took advantage of his momentary distraction to charge him, driving Athos to the ground with sufficient force to stun him.

There however, the man's run of good luck ended, for when he turned to run he encountered Porthos, whose fist slammed into his face. His bullish build ensured he didn't go down with the first blow and after landing a couple more, Porthos opted for wrestling him to the ground.

Athos sat up, dazed but unhurt. He looked around for his pistol and it was then he noticed the vial of poison. It had rolled halfway beneath the door of one of the stalls, to be lost forever if the occupant chose to come forward to investigate the kerfuffle. Athos crawled over to it and tucked it safely inside his coat before locating his pistol and priming it.

"Desist, or I will fire."

The order was scarcely necessary, as the man was already beaten. Porthos half dragged him to sit over by the wall.

"Your name?" Athos asked.

"Bastien Roux."

"State your business here."

Roux maintained a sullen silence.

"Am I to understand from your refusal to speak that you have no legitimate reason to be here?" Athos withdrew the vial from his coat. "Or could this be the cause of your reticence?"

"That's mine."

"Well at least he's not denying it," said Porthos. "Should make it easier for the judge."

"Judge?"

Roux's confusion left Athos wondering if the man wasn't a lunatic after all.

"Do you deny having this on your person, with the intention of poisoning the King's horse?"

Roux looked confused.

"No?"

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. That was easier than they had thought it would be.

They bound Roux's hands and hauled him to his feet.

"So why'd you want the King dead anyway?" Porthos asked; curious despite himself. His question caused Roux to dig his heels into the ground and refuse to walk on.

"What? No! I am loyal to the King."

Athos frowned. As did Porthos, though his expression also held a hint of amusement.

"How does that work then?"

"I was trying to save him," said Roux.

"Save him?" repeated Porthos.

"Yes." Roux seemed eager to explain. "I had a dream, you see. His Majesty fell from his horse. His death saw the whole country fall into ruin. I knew it was a prophecy. I had to stop it."

"So, you poisoned whatever horse was to be his Majesty's mount?"

"Yes."

"Mad then," said Porthos.

"Apparently so," agreed Athos.

Their prisoner protested loudly all the way to the Bastille that he was a devoted subject. Neither Porthos nor Athos could see that granting the man much clemency when he eventually came before a judge. They returned to the garrison to find Aramis and d'Artagnan eating breakfast.

"This... one... is a... tyrant," said Aramis, waving his utensil toward d'Artagnan.

"I wouldn't let him out of bed," d'Artagnan explained.

"Good," said Porthos, ignoring Aramis' scowl. "He shouldn't be walking about yet."

Athos tried to forestall the inevitable protest. "You can walk when you are able to do so without fainting."

Aramis looked scandalized. "I... did... not..."

"Swooned like a lovely maiden you did," said Porthos, grinning as he reached over d'Artagan's shoulder to swipe a piece of food off his plate.

"No... I ..." Aramis began to cough. Everyone in the room immediately hastened to help, taking his plate from him and pouring some honey water. However, this bout was neither as prolonged or as harsh as the ones preceding it.

Porthos looked contrite as he handed his friend the cup of honey water.

"No more talking," said Athos, firmly.

Aramis looked pointedly at Porthos, who put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"Fine. You didn't swoon. You collapsed. It was very dramatic."

"It was," said Athos. "Although, if you could manage to be a little less dramatic. I for one would be grateful."

They glanced to see if d'Artagnan shared this sentiment, since he was being unusually reticent. Probably because he had fallen asleep in a chair. Porthos rescued his plate before it could fall to the floor and finished what was left of the food.

"Can't say as I blame him. Looking after you has to be exhausting."

Aramis opened his mouth to protest, only for it to be covered by Athos' gloved hand. He settled for glowering silently instead.

Porthos grinned, unrepentant.

******

The Captain took the news of Roux's arrest directly to the King. On his return he looked in on Aramis and found him asleep with Porthos and d'Artagnan at his bedside. Seeing Treville in the doorway Porthos went over to speak with him, and they both stepped outside the room to talk.

"How is he?" Treville asked.

"He's not been right since breakfast. He managed to eat something, but vomited straight after. He's in too much of a rush to get well again, that's the trouble."

"Well, his Majesty is grateful that you have detained the man responsible, so I think perhaps you have earned yourselves a few days. Perhaps you will be able to convince Aramis to give himself more time to heal."

"If all else fails we can set d'Artagnan on him," said Porthos.

"D'Artagnan?"

"Those doe eyes of his can guilt Aramis into behaving far better than Athos or I can."

"Where is Athos?"

"Gone to see the physician. He's worried about Aramis' breathing."

"Try steam."

"Sir?"

"I knew a man who survived a fire. Some days he could hardly draw breath without falling into paroxysm of coughing. He discovered that if he sat in a hot bath breathing in the steam, it eased it. He would sit in one all day. People would conduct their business with him while he sat and they sweated. He used it to his advantage; some were in so much of a hurry to conclude matters and take their leave, they did not haggle as much as they might otherwise have done."

"How did he keep the water hot?"

"He placed the bath on heated bricks and had servants change the water when it cooled. I'm not suggesting you place Aramis in a bath. But perhaps a boiling pot would give off enough steam to alleviate some of his difficulties?"

"I'll tell Athos. Thank you, Captain," said Porthos.

Treville took his leave and Porthos went back inside to sit with Aramis. His friend's skin had once again taken on a pale, waxy sheen. Even more troubling was the way his breath rattled with the slow rise and fall of his chest.

They had got their hopes up too soon it seemed. Aramis had seemed so much better, eating and joking with them, even his cough had not sounded quite so painful. However, he had started to turn pale before he even finished his meal, and vomited shortly after until there was nothing left in his belly. The resulting dry heaves continued for so long they despaired of it ever stopping.

When eventually it did, Aramis was left weak and shaky. They settled him in his bed, where he had quickly fallen into an exhausted sleep.

It was the harsh, raspy note to his breathing - far too reminiscent of a dying man's rattle - that had sent Athos to find a physician, determined to discover if there was anything more that could be done.

"Look," said d'Artagnan.

The fear in his voice had Porthos following his gaze, and his throat tightened when he saw the blue tinge to Aramis' lips. He immediately set about bundling Aramis up in the bed covers as he prepared to lift him up.

"Give me a hand."

"What are you doing?" The uncertainty in d'Artagnan's voice did not stop him from ensuring that Aramis' limbs were tucked safely within the covers, or from going ahead of Porthos to open the door.

"Come with me," said Porthos. He left the room and crossed the courtyard, heading up the steps to Treville's office. He tilted his chin toward the Captain's door. "Open it."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows shot up, but he rapped on it sharply and opened it before the Captain could respond.

Treville looked up as they entered, and was on his feet as he saw who it was.

"Porthos?"

"I think we need to try the steam, but there's no fire in his room."

"Put him here," said Treville, pulling out a chair. "D'Artagnan, go and ask Serge for a large filled kettle. Boiling water would be best, if you can manage it."

A bewildered looking d'Artagnan left them arranging Aramis more comfortably. Taking note of the alarming pallor and the blueish tinge, Treville's mouth tightened.

"How long as he been like this?"

"Not long," said Porthos. "His breathing's been getting steadily worse, but this is new."

Treville nodded tersely. He carefully peeled back Aramis' eyelid. "God willing if we can help his breathing he should come out of this."

They waited in tense silence until they heard the heavy clump of boots. Porthos left Aramis' side long enough to go to the top of the stairs to see if d'Artagnan needed him. However, d'Artagnan had already enlisted the aid of the kitchen boy. Between them they carried a large kettle, a stick through the handle to allow them to support the weight between them.

Treville was already stoking up the fire. They put the kettle on it and soon clouds of wet steam began to billow from it as the lid shuddered, and spots of water fell onto the fire causing it to hiss and spit.

The kitchen boy stood gawping until d'Artganan ushered him from the room, shutting the door firmly.

"How long before we know if it's working?" Porthos asked anxiously.

Treville didn't answer.

"We need more steam in the room." The Captain walked through to the adjoining armoury and returned with a handful of cleaning rags. "Here, close all the shutters and use these to block any gaps."

Soon the only light in the room came from the fire and candles. Porthos sat with Aramis, while d'Artagnan went to wait for Athos' return to avail him of the new situation. Treville continued with his paperwork, glancing up from time to time to check on Aramis' progress. The sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs alerted them to Athos and d'Artagnan's arrival.

Athos entered without knocking, walking straight over to his friends and crouching down in front of Aramis.

"Has there been any improvement?"

"None," said Porthos, his voice was heavy with grief.

D'Artagnan entered more quietly, closing the door and standing off to the side. He watched the tableau before him, his own forehead lined with worry.

Treville silently marvelled that this young man had found a place within this friendship, and so quickly. He would bear watching.

Hours ticked by. The kettle was refilled. Moisture tricked down the walls and every man's face shone with sweat. The damp, sticky heat was nigh on intolerable, but no one complained and no one left.

Porthos and Athos sat at Aramis' side like bookends, their faces flushed from the fire. Athos stared into the flames, one hand worrying the chain around his neck. Porthos never took his eyes off Aramis. D'Artagnan sat a short distance from them with his head resting on his bent knees.

It was Porthos then, who noticed Aramis stir. Little more than a fluttering of his eyelids at first, and then a small cough. Athos swivelled around so fast he almost lost his balance. He knelt up in front of Aramis, with Porthos at his side.

Aramis blinked muzzily, his dark eyes focusing slowly on them both. He glanced with obvious puzzlement from one to the other.

"Why-" He stopped, his voice rough and croaky from disuse. He tried to wet his lips and swallow as d'Artgnan dashed over clutching a cup of water. Aramis pushed impatiently at the blankets to free his hands. He accepted a few mouthfuls before handing the cup back and trying once again to speak. "Why... are you... on... the floor?"

Instead of answering, Athos lowered his head onto Aramis' blanket covered knees, concealing his face. Aramis absently rubbed the back of his friend's neck, still looking perplexed.

Porthos' eyes were bright with emotion.

"We thought you were leaving us."

Aramis continued to look baffled until he took a slow look around the room and realised where he was. The sight of a joyful d'Artagnan and a quietly pleased Treville confirmed his suspicions.

"Never willingly," he whispered, hoarsely.

As Porthos roughly thumbed the wetness from his eyes, Athos lifted his head.

"Be sure that you do not."

"It was... not... my intention... to worry you."

Now that Aramis was awake and alert, the first issue to be addressed was where to move him to. It was impractical for him to remain in the Captain's office and the room he had been using would no longer suffice. They were left to make a decision between his lodgings, or those of his friends'.

"Mine's closest, and I have a good sized fireplace," said Porthos. "Do you suppose Serge will mind if we borrow his kettle?"

*****

Aramis balked at the sedan chair they hired, but was eventually persuaded that it was the only way to transport him through the streets. However, he protested again when they reached their destination and Porthos made it clear that he expected Aramis to take the bed.

"Where will... you sleep?"

"Floor? Chair? Does it really matter?"

"Yes... This is... your... home... Your... bed."

It was clear Aramis had more to say on the subject, but while he paused to get his breath back, Porthos put forward his own question.

"Would you not give up your bed for me then, if I was hurt or sick?"

"Of course I would-"

"-there you are then," said Porthos, interrupting him.

Athos spoke without bothering to look up from the drink he was pouring. "This subject is closed, gentlemen."

They ate a light supper; Aramis managed a few cautious mouthfuls before he decided not to risk eating any more. D'Artagnan was uncertain whether he was welcome to spend the night, until Porthos directed him over to the window seat.

"You can sleep there. I'll take the floor. Athos, are you all right with the chair again?"

"No doubt my back will resent me for it, but yes, thank you."

******

D'Artagnan had not anticipated a restful night. However, it was not the person he was expecting who woke him. He stirred as daylight crept past the shutters. At first he only tugged the blanket up higher, trying to block out both the light and the early morning chill, but gradually he became aware that someone was murmuring in a low, distressed tone. He turned his head toward the bed, but Aramis appeared to be sleeping soundly. Likewise, Porthos was a motionless blanket covered shape on the floor.

Unable to crane his neck far enough to see Athos, d'Artagnan rolled over and saw immediately that Athos' face was twisted in distress; the blanket that had been covering him half on the floor as he twitched and muttered in a restless, uneasy slumber.

D'Artagnan watched, uncertain what to do. He had almost made up his mind to go over to him, when Athos suddenly opened his eyes. D'Artagnan quickly feigned sleep, drawing his arm up to hide his face as he listened to Athos' ragged breathing gradually even out.

When he heard movement, he decided to risk opening his eyes. He saw that Athos had got up and was drinking from the open wine bottle that had been left on the table. After consuming the entire contents, Athos reached for a second, unopened bottle. Observing this, d'Artagnan gave a loud yawn and sat up.

Athos' hand moved away from the bottle as he turned to face d'Artagnan, tilting his head in a silent good morning.

D'Artagnan responded with a tired smile as he untangled himself from his blanket and followed Athos outside to a small courtyard overlooked by the window seat. Feeling slightly awkward in the wake of what he had witnessed, d'Artagnan was the first to broach the silence.

"Aramis seems to be sleeping more easily." His face grew hot as he recalled Athos' own troubled sleep, and he added quickly, "Perhaps we won't be needing that kettle again."

"I pray you are right," said Athos.

D'Artagnan noticed the other man's pallor and the minute tremors afflicting his fingers, but he held his tongue. Athos' aloof demeanor did not invite questions.

"Athos!"

Porthos' shout brought them both running. Aramis was sitting hunched forward in the bed, his eyes wide and panicked as he struggled to breathe. Porthos was at his side, rubbing circles on his back.

Athos went over to the bed and took hold of Aramis' hands.

"Aramis, look at me. Look at me," he repeated, more forcefully. "Good. Now breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Slower," he cautioned.

Aramis' panicked wheezing gradually slowed to a more normal rhythm.

"D'Artagnan, I think that Aramis would welcome a drink if you could bring him one, please."

Porthos steadied the cup for Aramis while he drank.

"I... hate this," said Aramis.

"It will pass," said Athos.

Aramis' expression remained despondent. "Perhaps... it is... no... more... than I... deserve."

Athos frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Sometimes... it feels wrong. That I am here... and they... are not."

Athos squeezed his friend's hands. "You survived. There is no shame in that. And I for one am grateful that you did. For my life would be the poorer for never knowing you."

Aramis gave a weary smile. Porthos ruffled his hair gently.

"You're an idiot if you think you did anything wrong by staying alive. Life is a gift, not a curse."

"Forgive me, my friends... I am... poor company."

"You're weary and unwell," said Athos, gently. "Rest, and recover your spirits."

Aramis settled back against the pillows. Athos sat with him while Porthos put together a simple breakfast. Afterwards, d'Artagnan walked to his lodgings to give a reason for his unexplained absence. Constance's angry concern cooled once she had listened to his explanation.

"What did the physician say?"

D'Artagnan shrugged unhappily. "That it will take time for Aramis' body to rid itself of the effects of the noxious vapours, and that he must be discouraged from exerting himself in the meantime."

"Can he have callers?"

"I think he would welcome them," said d'Artagnan.

"Have you taken him any of his belongings?"

"Erm, no?" said d'Artagnan.

Constance pulled a despairing face. "He's going to need something to keep him occupied while he is bedridden. Aramis likes to read. You should go to his lodgings and bring him some of his books."

D'Artagnan brightened immediately. "He had a trunk at the garrison. There were books in it."

"Then fetch them," said Constance, making a shooing motion. "Go on." She laughed as he blew her a kiss and raced away.

*****

Days turned into weeks. All save Aramis were obliged to resume their duties. Though Treville gave them some leeway, allowing them to return to check on Aramis whenever posible.

Constance did not mention to her husband where she was going each morning, she was certain he would not approve. Perhaps it was not seemly for a married woman to sit at a young man's bedside, but Constance could not find it in herself to care. She had witnessed the courage and kindness of these men, and knew they had no kin on hand to care for them. She would not leave them to struggle alone. It was no hardship for her to sit and read to Aramis, or to sew while he slumbered. Surely an act of Christian kindness that no one could condemn.

All the same, she chose to keep it a secret between her and God. Let Jacques believe that she was visiting Marguerite, or the market. She did not want to have to defend her actions.

Her heart lightened as she knocked on the door and she was greeted by Porthos' relieved smile.

"I'm glad you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"Being difficult is he?"

Porthos snorted. "He only wants to go for a walk."

"Don't listen to him. It's all lies," Aramis called out.

Constance followed Porthos through into the room and tried not to laugh at Aramis' pout.

"I merely wish to sit outside," said Aramis.

"And like I told you, it's too cold," said Porthos.

"He's right, I'm afraid," said Constance. "The last thing you need is a chill."

Aramis made a frustrated noise and threw the book he was reading across the bed; it slid onto the floor.

Constance bent to pick it up.

"That is hardly the way to treat something so lovely," she commented, recognizing the book she had been reading from the previous day.

Aramis tried to look contrite, but a hint of impatience showed through.

"Forgive me, I do not mean to seem ungrateful but I am tired of staring at the same four walls day after day. I want to see the sun."

"You saw it yesterday," said Porthos.

"From the window seat!" Aramis cried. "I need to feel its warmth on my face."

"There is precious little warmth today. Perhaps tomorrow?" said Constance, looking to Porthos for his answer.

He gave a reluctant nod. "Perhaps."

Somewhat mollified, Aramis sat quietly in the bed once more.

Constance settled herself in the chair next to it and prepared to open the book.

"Shall I read to you?"

"Please," said Aramis, lying back aganst the pillows and closing his eyes.

With the matter settled until another day, Constance gave Porthos a discreet smile that matched the one on his own face.

*****

By the end of the first month, Aramis was well enough to sit outside on mild days. By the end of the second he was well enough to take a stroll in the company of his friends.

While they were out walking Aramis spied Madame Maréchal, the wife of a wealthy merchant, whose husband spent much of his time at sea, an arrangement that suited them both. She spent most of her time at their country estate, but whenever she was in Paris, she would send word for Aramis to call on her.

Aramis smiled at her, but his expression turned crestfallen when she snubbed him.

"A moment, gentlemen, if you would, please?"

He crossed the street, sweeping off his hat as he bowed to her in greeting. "Madame Maréchal."

Her answering tone was decidely icy. "Monsieur Aramis."

Undaunted, he launched into an apology. "I have come to beg your forgiveness, Madame. Alas, an injury I received whilst carrying out my duties prevented me from keeping our engagement."

Hearing this she dropped her indifferent facade. "Injured? Oh, my dear Aramis, what harm has befallen you?"

"Ah, good lady, your tender concern comforts me. I confess I was confined to my bed these two long months under the close eye of my companions. I pleaded with them to send word to you, but I fear they were far too worried to leave my side."

Aramis looked over at his friends, who were trying not to be too obvious about watching. Athos in particular was doing his utmost to appear disinterested.

Madame Maréchal was aghast. "But how can you possibly get well again staying at that terrible noisy garrison? No, you shall be a guest in my home. I insist. I will see to it that you are properly cared for."

Aramis didn't bother to correct her. She placed a hand on his arm and they walked on together. He flashed his friends a brief delighted grin as he passed them.

D'Artagnan huffed out an irritated breath at the ease with which he had been spirited away. "At least she might not have so much difficulty keeping him in bed."

Porthos gave a surprised bark of laughter. "Yeah, but will he get any rest?"

"Probably not," said Athos.

"Not unless he swoons under the lady's attentions, eh?" said Porthos.

D'Artagnan ducked his head to hide a slightly embarrassed smile. Porthos let out another short laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. The three headed back to the garrison, confident that their friend was finally on his way to being restored in mind, spirit, and body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait. I can promise that I won't be whisking this chapter away! I hope you all enjoyed it :)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, Ponygirl! :)


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